Imperfect
by alli-sun
Summary: Draco is perfect. Ron isn't.


**Imperfect**

Summary: Draco is perfect. Ron isn't. Slash and one-shot, R/D.

Disclaimer: I do not own an HP characters mentioned in here.

This is a new, longer version. The objective is to make this fic better. So please read/review and tell me if I have improved or made it absolutely dismal.

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From a very young age, my father had taught me to be perfect. The perfection of a Malfoy.

My appearance must fit the Malfoy stature, and it did. My hair was slicked back, smooth and neat, washed carefully to shine in the light. My face was the combination of Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black, the most attractive girl of her old Hogwarts year. I inherited her high cheek-bone and pointed chin, as well as her fair skin. From my father I received the cold, gray eyes and a chiseled forhead, eyebrows, and nose.

My clothes were perfect as well. I wore expensive wizard robes of the finest material, the best quality faux fur during the winter and my dress robes were sewn by the top wizarding designers in the business. And they were always pressed and clean, no wrinkles and stains were allowed. My shoes shined with polish, every seam was done, the hems were straight, all buttons were in place.

My grades must be perfect. And they nearly were, if it not for Mudblood Granger. And a Malfoy is not a Malfoy if he is outperformed by a Mudblood. And I received a beating for that. But I got my revenge during second year.

I always walked regal and proud, spine straight, and my neck was slightly craned upward, showing that I will not look people straight in the eye, but rather down on them with my nose in the air. They call it strutting, but I am merely showing myself as a superior to them. They call me too small to be going around like that, but they are simply nothing more but giant oafs soon to outgrown the half-giant. I am perfect height.

And I was taught table manners. I took a fork in my hand with a flourish. I used the utensils according to the meal placed in front of me. I held them delicately and chewed at a regular, even pace even if I am at the verge of starving. Eating was a form of art, the way I performed.

I talked coolly, the volume of my voice was never raised, only sometimes lowered. I was clever, sometimes even voiced arrogance. Talking was for amusement and to show wit, and I did so perfectly.

Most importantly, Father informed me that I had to keep away emotion, perfectly. Emotion, I had learned, was a weakness, a weakness that I could not show. "Especially love," I remember him saying. Love did nothing more than drive your actions and command you to do idiotic things. And once enemies knew of anything of this sort of love that you have, they use it against you.

So, when I went on the train in first year and met Weasley, I was surprised.

From the day I was born, I had always been surrounded by perfect, pure-blooded families. I had been accustomed by fancy treats, eaten by guests most elegantly. Sniffing at half-breeds and practically ignoring muggles and muggle-borns. Showing the greatest respect to the Dark Lord.

He was unlike anything else I've ever seen. Weasley had unruly red hair, falling on his forehead casually and showing highlights from the many days spent in the sun. His eyes were sparkling blue, alive with color and emotion. His nose was extremely long, and his cheeks were sprinkled with freckles that contrasted with surprisingly pale, milky skin.

The clothes that he wore were unbelievable. He wore hand-me-down robes from his many brothers and old sweaters that were either too big or too small for him. Never an exact fit. His tie was always too loose and undone. And the muggle sneakers he wore on his feat were mud-covered and worn.

His grades were atrocious. Mostly _P_'s, _D_'s, and sometimes even a _T_. He barely manages to get even an _A_, let alone an _O_. Yet, his parents don't mind. Well, I suppose they do, but they probably don't beat him with a whip.

And the way he walked was something I found intriguing. He hardly carried himself as the pureblood he was, for though they were beyond poor, the Weasley family was a very well-respected pureblood family. Tall and lanky, he strolled with a swagger, not seeming to care what other people thought of him. And only someone as brave as a Gryffindor could possibly not care of the opinions of others.

He ate the way a starving man would eat. Gnawing and chewing ferociously, licking the forks and spoons to make sure he did not waste anything. Chicken bones piled up on his plates, and his cheeks were always stuffed with mashed potatoes and peas. And at the end, when you were sure he could not possibly eat more, he helps himself to another serving and licks his fingers afterwards.

He spoke much too loudly, laughing too hard at a joke. The sort of Gryffindor laugh, where you threw your head back and guffawed, wiping your tears and squeezing in a last few giggles before laughter died out. His verbal jousting was horrible, he could hardly think of any decent insults to throw back at me, he was too angry to speak, with his clenched jaw, red tomato face, and hands balled into fists with fury.

And he was alive with emotion. When he was happy, he would smile that huge smile, showing his teeth and happiness. When he was sad, his eyes would droop in melancholy and he would stuff his hands in his pockets and try his best to seem to be perfectly alright.

He was everything I was raised not to be, everything I was raised to hate.

Yet, I don't.

Ron Weasley is imperfect, but that's what makes him perfect.

And that's why I love him.


End file.
